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Crusader's Lady
Lynna Banning
Jerusalem, 1192, The Third CrusadeSoraya al-Din is a woman bent on revenge. Disguised as a boy, nothing will keep her from her quarry!Marc de Valery is a war-weary knight who has one last duty–to protect King Richard on his perilous journey back to England.As the sun rises over the golden desert, Soraya sets out with Marc. It is the first step on a journey that will take her away from all she knows–across the Mediterranean to the beautiful Italian countryside and over the harsh French Alps. While danger follows close in her footsteps, can she shield her heart against the honorable knight she has sworn to destroy?



Soraya’s dirt-smudged face had never looked more beautiful.
Marc wanted to kiss her so much he fought to keep his hands on the reins.
“Come with me to Venice,” he blurted. It was unnecessary to ask the question, but he wanted to say it aloud, hear the words of invitation hang in the air. There were a thousand other things he might also say…. Come with me to my bed. Come with me to Scotland, to my life.
But he could not. His first duty was to the king, not his heart. She held his gaze and with a jolt of warmth he realized they needed no words to know what the other was thinking. Their eyes said everything.

Praise for Lynna Banning
Loner’s Lady
“…poignant tale of a woman’s coming of age…”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Ranger and the Redhead
“…fast-paced, adventure-filled story…”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Wedding Cake War
“You’ll love Banning’s subtle magic with romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Angel of Devil’s Camp
“This sweet charmer of an Americana romance has just the right amount of humor, poignancy and a cast of quirky characters.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
The Scout
“Though a romance through and through, The Scout is also a story with powerful undertones of sacrifice and longing.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Crusader’s Lady
Lynna Banning

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DON’T MISS THESE OTHER NOVELS AVAILABLE NOW:
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In memory of my husband,
Clarence Browning Woolston,
and my father, Lawrence E. Yarnes
With grateful thanks to Tricia Adams,
Suzanne Barrett, Marlene Connell,
Kathleen Dougherty, Kat Macfarlane,
Jane Maranghi, Brenda Preston, Susan Renison,
Gwen Shupe, and David Woolston.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Author’s Note

Chapter One
Jerusalem, 1192
Marc drew the wool cloak about his shoulders and leaned toward his campfire with a weary groan. He no longer cared if it was night or day, if the desert was sun-scorched or wind-whipped, his belly full or empty. Each day brought him closer to not caring whether he lived at all.
The sun dropped toward the dry hills of Syria like a great gold coin, burning its way across the purpling sky. Usually he welcomed the smoke-coloured shadows that gathered around his camp each evening, but not tonight. He drew in a lungful of dung-scented air. Fifty steps to the west, the king’s banner of scarlet and gold fluttered weakly in the dying wind. Were it not for Richard, this hated crusade would be over.
A boot scraped against the ground near him. Marc cocked his ear and reached an aching arm for the sword lying at his side.
‘No need, my friend,’ a hearty voice called. ‘It is but Roger de Clare.’ The muscular young man, a forest-green surcoat covering his chain mail shirt, squatted beside Marc’s fire.
‘What news, de Clare?’ Marc muttered.
‘None. The king is worse. The servants are lazy. The scavenger birds are hungry. All this you know.’
Marc nodded without smiling. ‘Saladin himself sends a healing medicine for the king. At least that is what our spies report.’
Roger tipped his head toward the edge of Marc’s camp. ‘They also report Saladin’s men lurk in the shadows beyond our firelight and listen to words best left unspoken.’
The whole camp knew Richard lay in his tent, sweating with fever, attended by knights and servants. Saladin, as well, knew where Richard and his warriors lay. Every move the Frankish army made, the Saracen leader seemed to know in advance.
Roger cleared his throat. ‘The king sent word he would speak with you.’
Marc groaned. ‘Again. No man in all Christendom ignores so much good advice. I will go later. I have not yet eaten.’
Roger glanced into the crude metal pot hanging over Marc’s fire. ‘Small loss, it would appear.’
Marc nodded. Roger de Clare never minced his words, as did other Norman knights. That was one reason Marc tolerated him. Other Normans, with their greedy gaze on Sicily, Cyprus, even Scotland, could go to the devil.
‘Will the king die, do you think?’ Roger asked.
‘I doubt it. Lion Heart is well named.’
Again Marc leaned toward his fire. The bowl of boiled grain looked unappetising, but it was all he had.
‘Join me, Roger.’ He gestured toward the bowl of food. ‘I grow weary of eating alone.’
Roger glanced at the warming wheat mixture. ‘I think not, my friend. Your cooking pot would not feed a hungry rabbit, let alone a friend. And…’ The young man hesitated. ‘Richard waits.’
‘Let him wait,’ Marc grumbled. ‘I am weary of killing.’
‘Spies are near,’ de Clare said in a low voice. ‘Take care to say nothing of interest to the Saracen.’
Marc nodded. His friend rose and propped his hands on his sword belt. ‘You are too much alone, man. You eat alone, sleep alone. You would fight alone if the king would let you. But, my ill-tempered friend, I will not let you do that.’
‘Save your advice for the men you command.’
Roger scuffed noisily out of the firelight, and Marc closed his eyes. God in heaven, he did not deserve such a friend. Not after Acre. Richard had ordered the massacre, but on that awful, bloody day a part of Marc began to die. The heads of two thousand hostages, women and children, as well as defenders, rolled in the blood-soaked sand outside the city. Richard had betrayed them, and then slaughtered them all.
A rustle whispered into his consciousness. Not a footfall, something else. Without thought, he felt for his sword.
The sound came again, closer. Behind him. ‘Who goes there?’
The silence stretched, so profound it seemed to scream. One of Richard’s heavy-booted minions? A servant?
An assassin?
Marc lifted the simmering pot off the fire, rose and grasped the hilt of his sword. He had just started to buckle the leather belt around his hips when a movement beyond the flames caught his attention. He stiffened, straining his eyes into the thick night.
Sensing a motion at his back, he spun, sword raised, just as a dark-swathed figure hurtled toward him. Instinctively Marc took a single step forward, and his blade caught the intruder in the throat. A cry, then the man pitched onto the ground at Marc’s feet and lay still.
Blood poured from the man’s wound, soaking the turban and the silk tunic, oozing over the dark fingers clutching at the torn throat. A Saracen. Probably a spy, this close to the Frankish camp.
A gurgling sound, then nothing. Marc bent closer. Almighty God, what had he done! The man was unarmed.
He turned away in self-loathing, covered his face with his hand. For a moment he thought he would vomit. A warrior’s slaughter in battle was his duty as a Christian knight, but striking an unarmed man, even a Saracen, was against the law of God. A whisper of sound brought his head up, every nerve on edge. Something—instinct or training, or perhaps the voice of God—made him twist back toward the dead Arab. A small form flitted out of the shadows and threw itself over the body, sobbing like a girl. So, the man had a loyal servant.
Again Marc turned away. The words of regret that sprang to his lips died the instant he opened his mouth. He need not apologise to a Saracen, much less to a Saracen’s servant.
He turned away, toward the fire, and suddenly a warm weight dropped onto his back. One thin arm crooked about his neck and the blade of a dagger pressed into his throat.
‘Qaatil!’ shouted a thin voice, choked with hatred. Before Marc could throw him off, the knife nicked his skin; a dribble of warm liquid ran down the neck of his tunic.
‘Taraka.’ He spoke in Arabic, but the boy did not let go. Instead he clung to Marc’s back, the hand gripping the dagger flailing to find a vulnerable spot. He grabbed the servant’s upper arm and twisted, hard.
With a yelp, the slight figure tumbled off and sprawled on the ground. The dagger skittered out of his fingers. A skinny hand grabbed for it, but Marc stomped his boot onto the blade, pinning it to the hard ground.
‘Go.’ He gestured toward the shadowy edge of his camp. ‘I will not harm you.’ Without thinking, he spoke the words in the Frankish tongue.
‘I will kill you.’ The low voice replied with a tremor. ‘I will take revenge if it is the last thing I do on this earth. God knows I speak truly.’
A servant boy who spoke Norman French? ‘Who are you?’ Marc demanded.
The boy darted a glance at the dagger caught under Marc’s foot, flicked his gaze to the body of the dead Saracen and dropped into a crouch, his forearm still imprisoned in Marc’s grip. Tears streaked the lad’s dirty face.
Marc bent and scooped up the knife. The hilt was silver, beautifully incised, with a single jewel embedded into the metal. A ruby, big as a sparrow’s egg.
‘Where did you get this?’
The hunched figure twitched but said nothing.
‘Answer me!’ He slid his fingers down to the boy’s wrist and squeezed. ‘Where did you get this blade?’
The trembling servant glanced down at the dead Arab. ‘It belongs to me.’
‘And I am the prince of Samarkand. Speak the truth!’
‘I am no thief.’
‘So you say, boy. Where did you get this blade?’
‘It is mine, now.’ He glanced again at the body.
So, the Arab had been armed. A spy? It mattered not, since death now sat on the man’s chest.
But the boy mattered. The boy might be only half-grown, but the wiry young Arab had tried to attack him, kill him, even. Marc reached down, caught the neck of the youth’s dust-smeared tunic and yanked him upright.
‘Who are you?’ He expected the boy to cringe, but he straightened and looked boldly into Marc’s face.
‘I am… Soray.’
‘And who is that man on the ground?’
‘That is my lord. His name is Khalil al-Din.’
Marc tightened his grip on the tunic. ‘A servant? You are his servant?’
‘I am his servant.’
Marc released him. It made no sense. Was a Saracen servant so devoted to his master that he would commit murder on his behalf?
‘You are lying.’
The boy tensed. ‘No, lord. I do not lie.’
Marc shook his head. He knew a lie when he heard one. Still, he could not linger; the king awaited him.
‘Leave this camp, boy. I will see to the body of your master.’ He tramped out of the circle of firelight, the dagger still clenched in his fist, to the tent where Richard waited.

Soraya crossed her arms over her waist and watched the tall knight stride off into the dark. He had a cold, hard look about him, a darkness in his face that frightened her. Not one word of regret, not even a prayer for the man he had struck down with his thoughtless blow.
Shaking with sobs, she knelt at Khalil’s side and bowed her head. ‘Uncle, I swear to you I will avenge your death. And I will also complete your mission— I will make sure that Saladin’s written message is delivered to King Richard. But for both these tasks I must get your dagger back. God willing, I will do it this very night.’ She reached out and pressed her fingers over his eyelids. Choking back a cry of anguish, she straightened Khalil’s limbs and kissed both his cold cheeks.
I cannot bear for the Frankish barbarian to touch you. I cannot allow him to lay you in the ground without the proper words.
She stood up, her hands clenched at her sides. Tearing her gaze from her uncle’s body, she surveyed the camp. The barbarian had no tent, only a meager fire and one cooking pot. She peered inside the vessel. Surely a man so large must eat more than that little bit of noxious-looking paste!
An iron helmet and a chain mail shirt were partially stuffed into a filthy hemp bag. Beside it lay a rolled-up blanket, secured with a leather belt blackened with age. Ugh. These Franks were worse than pigs.
She lifted her head, listening. The knight would return soon. When he did, she would be ready. She must snatch the dagger away from him and strike before he could react. She would not give up until the miserable Frank lay lifeless beside her uncle.
And as to her other quest, the message she needed to deliver? All in good time. She would see to that once she had retrieved her dagger and dealt with the man who had killed her beloved uncle. It would be difficult to demand her weapon back from the Frank without saying why she needed it—but she was to tell no one of the message except the king. She added more dung to the fire, carefully positioned the blanket before it and lifted it away in a prearranged signal.

Marc made his way past a dozen campfires, noting how the knights he met backed away from him, neither looking him in the face nor speaking. Richard’s men had always been uneasy in his company; now they seemed to fear him, as well. Did his fury show that much?
When he came to Richard’s large, crimson tent, he stuffed the dagger into his belt and reached for the silk flap.
‘Ah,’ an oily voice murmured at his back. ‘Marc de Valery. At last. I wager you will regret making the king wait.’
Marc said nothing. He shoved past the surly knight, entered Richard’s tent and went down on one knee beside the cot.
‘Get up,’ the king rasped. The ruddy face, crowned with frizzy red-gold hair, was sweaty and flushed. Below the bushy moustache, the dry, chapped lips opened. ‘Come closer.’ It seemed to take all Richard’s strength to utter those few words.
Marc edged forward on his knees. The still air inside the tent smelled of sour bedding. ‘My lord?’
‘Listen to me, de Valery,’ the king wheezed. ‘My strength fails me.’
‘Aye, lord?’
Richard’s eyelids closed. ‘Tell no one what I say. Swear it.’
Marc stared at the ailing monarch. ‘I swear.’
‘Lean down.’
Marc bent his head, turning his ear close to Richard’s open lips. The king murmured a single sentence. ‘I must return to England.’ He raised one unsteady hand to rest on Marc’s shoulder. The heat from the man’s fingers seared through his linen tunic like a hot iron.
‘My brother John has made alliance with the French king. Philip wants Normandy— John wants my crown. I must go home. I need you to accompany me on the journey.’
‘If I do what you ask, my lord, you will die.’
‘I will not die, de Valery. You will see to that.’
Marc sucked in air. He could not refuse. No one refused Richard of England unless he ceased to value his own life.
‘Very well, sire. I will do what you ask.’
‘Good,’ Richard uttered on a sigh. ‘Très bien.’
‘One question only,’ Marc murmured. ‘Why me?’
The king gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Because,’ Richard said, ‘I trust you, even if you are half-Scot. You are a good man, de Valery.’
Marc dropped his head to acknowledge the backhanded compliment. He would not bother to confess he was not the good knight Richard thought him. Not even close.
He made to rise, but Richard’s limp hand stayed him. ‘One more thing.’
Marc waited for the king’s breathing to steady.
‘Stay away from Leopold of Austria. He is blinded by his anger.’
‘Yes, my lord. I have known this. You should not have desecrated his banner as you did.’
‘You should have told me before now.’
Marc said nothing. No Scot would dare accuse a German baron of perfidy. Richard knew that.
It was past moonrise when Marc finished his preparations on the king’s behalf and returned to his small camp. The fire had burned down to embers. The cooking pot was stone-cold. He wasn’t hungry anyway, thinking of tomorrow and all the things that could go awry. Richard was shrewd, even calculating. But at times he acted on impulse rather than with the cool rationality of his father, Henry Plantagenet. It was worse with a fevered brain.
He glanced toward the spot where the dead Saracen should have been and recoiled. The body was gone! He bent over the spot and found it swept clean.
A shiver went up his spine. No blood stained the ground. No hoofmarks, or footprints. Did a Saracen ascend to Paradise so easily?
Or had the Arab boy dragged his master away?
He crossed himself in short, jerky motions. Perhaps the corpse had been spirited away by djinns. He fingered the jeweled dagger he’d stuffed under his belt. He had told no one of the slaying, not even Richard of England. The act made him sick to think on. But now he must look to the future and prepare to leave the camp tomorrow morning and journey back to England with Richard.
The hair at his neck prickled. Marc half turned, straining to listen. Outside the circle of firelight he could hear someone breathing.
He drew his blade and plunged toward the sound.

Chapter Two
Marc closed his fingers around a smooth, silk-covered arm and yanked the Saracen boy out of the shadows. ‘What are you doing here? I told you to go.’
‘Do not touch me!’ a high, angry voice yelled. ‘Release me at once!’
‘Answer me!’ Marc gritted through clenched teeth.
The small turbaned head came up. ‘I kept watch over my uncle.’
‘And where is your uncle now?’ He gave the boy a single hard shake. ‘Perhaps he rose up and walked to Paradise?’
A slap stung his cheek. ‘Do not insult him. No one walks to Paradise.’
God, the little brat had struck him!
‘Where is he, then?’
‘I signaled my kinsmen, using your firelight. They came in secret for the body, took him away on a horse.’
‘Why did you not go with them?’
The youth dropped his head, flicked a glance at the jeweled dagger in Marc’s hand, then stared at his leather sandals. Marc tightened his grip on the slim arm. ‘Why?’
The boy set his mouth in a tight line and did not respond. Then, quick as a cat, he wrenched his arm free and his small hand made a grab for the dagger. The blade sliced into the boy’s thumb, and he cried out.
Marc collared him, dragged him over to the fire and pushed him down beside it. ‘Here.’ He tossed down a bit of linen he kept under his tunic. The boy wrapped it around his hand but said nothing.
Marc nodded. ‘I see.’ He squatted a few feet away and hid the knife behind his belt. ‘You stayed behind to attack me.’
No answer. The boy stared into the glowing embers.
‘You have courage, I will say that.’ Still no response.
‘Look at me!’ Marc ordered. With his fist he tipped the scarf-swathed chin up. Eyes the colour of the sea, pale green and hard as jade, met his.
Something kicked inside Marc’s chest. ‘You have strange eyes, boy. Arabs are dark.’
‘I am Circassian, not Arab. But I was brought up among Arabs. I know their ways.’
Marc studied the boy for a long moment. ‘Unwind your headpiece.’
The layers of silk slowly fell away until Marc could see the boy’s visage. True, he was not Arab. His skin was the colour of cream, the features fine, almost delicate, the nose long and straight. A mass of unruly black curls sprang to life when released from under the turban.
Again a jolt under his ribs snapped his nerves taut. The youth was handsome, almost feminine in his movements. He watched the thin shoulders hunch against the cold wind. The lad had tried to stab him, but he had neither the skill nor the strength to accomplish the deed. Disarmed, he was no longer a threat.
‘Are you hungry?’ he snapped.
‘Yes, lord….’
Marc reached for the cooking pot, scooped up three fingers of the congealed mess, then handed over the bowl. ‘It is cold, but it fills the belly.’
The boy did likewise and made to hand it back, but Marc pushed it away. The youth gazed at him, his strange green eyes assessing, then quickly devoured the rest.
Marc watched him. What should he do with the boy, who was now busy scouring the inside of the empty pot with a handful of sand? Send him back to his people, he supposed.
God, what was he thinking? The fate of the young Arab did not matter; Marc and the king would be gone before morning.
He rose, tramped over to his hemp supply bag and yanked out a ragged blanket. Bundling it into a ball, he tossed it to the boy, who stared at Marc with wary emerald eyes.
‘Nights in the desert are cold, Circassian.’
The smooth, pale forehead creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Yes, lord. I know. Shukren, lord. Mercez.’
There was something strange about this lad. For one thing, he spoke both Arabic and Norman French. And for another, eyes that color were rare, even for a Circassian. Eyes that mysterious made him feel…restless. Aware of something he could not name.
For the rest of the night he would sleep with his sword at his side and make sure the dagger was secured under his body. He did not trust the boy.

She would never understand these Franks. This one in particular, with those eyes blue as lapis lazuli and his gold-streaked hair. There was a darkness about him that made Soraya shudder. He had killed Khalil, yet he gave her his blanket.
She wrapped the coarse wool about her shoulders and dropped her head onto her raised knees. But she did not shut her eyes. Instead, she tipped her head just enough to watch him settle himself by the dwindling fire. He had strong features, but his eyes were shadowed, his mouth a harsh line.
No matter. She had but one purpose now—to avenge her uncle’s murder and then carry out their assigned mission for Saladin. By dawn this knight would be a dead man.
She shut her eyes.
A spark exploded and she jerked her head up and peeked at the knight on the other side of the guttering flames. Sleeping. Or so he appeared. Firelight heightened the strong jaw, the cruel mouth.
She flicked a pebble at his head, striking his chin, but his closed eyelids did not quiver. Her dagger was pinned beneath his long body. She prayed he would shift in his sleep so she could snatch the weapon and plunge the blade into his throat.
She watched the knight’s chest rise and fall with his steady breathing. She must do it. She had pledged her word to God. She tossed another, larger stone.
Marc flicked one eyelid open, then instantly snapped it shut. The boy still sat by the fire, his slim body hunched over his knees. Asleep, probably. Or watching him. Waiting.
The large ruby embedded in the Saracen dagger hilt chewed into the flesh of his back, but rather than roll over and ease the annoyance, he would endure. A blade secured under him was a blade that could not be used against him.
God have mercy, he had killed the Saracen in unthinking haste, and the ease with which he’d done it stunned and ashamed him. He felt sorry for the slave boy opposite him. Unending warfare ate away a man’s soul, poisoned his spirit. It had to stop. He couldn’t stomach another killing, not even of a servant.
He shifted uneasily, stretching out his legs. God, the longer the struggle for Jerusalem, the less human he became. Week after week Saladin’s warriors encircled the Frankish camp arrayed outside the city gates. Before them naught faced Richard’s army but stone walls. If the Franks moved their camp north or south, the Saracens again surrounded them once night had fallen. It had been thus for months. The battle for Jerusalem was a stand-off.
The butchery on both sides was beginning to make no sense. Richard did not covet Jerusalem for himself. The king was attacking a city he knew he could not hold. Was this interminable siege of the high stone walls just for show? Was Richard merely playing out the slaughter to best Philip of France and the German baron, Leopold of Austria?
He studied the slight figure of the Arab boy, asleep where he sat before the dying fire. There was a time when he himself had been as foolhardy and brave as that lad. And as innocent of the ugly side of life.
At dawn, he rolled over, reassured himself the dagger was still secure at his back and came to his feet. The boy sat tipped to one side, snoring lightly. Let him sleep. He and the king would be gone before the camp awakened.
He let his warhorse nibble a handful of the grain he had hoarded, pulled on his mail shirt and blue overtunic and flung the heavy leather saddle upon the animal’s broad back. When he had buckled on his sword belt and turned to mount, he found the boy grinning at him from atop the horse.
‘Get down,’ Marc ordered.
‘I will not, lord. How am I to attend you if I do not ride with you?’
‘I do not need a servant.’
‘Not true, lord. You need me. I assure you, I am no ordinary servant.’
A harsh laugh chuffed past Marc’s lips. That was obvious enough. ‘Get down,’ he repeated. ‘Now.’
The youth tilted his frame to one side, slid sideways and dropped gracefully to the ground. How, Marc wondered, had he managed to mount the huge animal in the first place?
‘Where do we ride?’
‘I ride south. You can go to the devil.’
The boy hissed in a breath. ‘Surely you would not wish it so!’
Marc clenched his jaw. ‘You are an outspoken brat. Ill-mannered and stubborn.’
‘Aye, lord. I am stubborn, I admit it freely.’
‘Go!’ Marc roared the word hoping to frighten the boy. Instead, the lad sent him a look designed to charm devils.
‘Where shall I go, lord?’
‘You can go to the latrine,’ Marc said with a jerk of his chin. ‘That way. Go.’
The boy scampered off in the direction Marc pointed. When he was sure the lad had not doubled back, he secured his sword belt, tucked his canvas utility bag behind the high-backed cantle and mounted his warhorse.
With an odd niggle of apprehension, he stepped the animal forward, toward the prearranged meeting place with the king.

Chapter Three
Soraya did not go to the latrine. She crept behind a hillock where she was hidden from view. Then she picked her way back among the sleeping camps and already bustling servants toward the knight’s camp.
Yawning Frankish squires sharpened swords or scrubbed chain mail shirts with handfuls of wet sand, paying her scant attention. But her soft massa al-khayr to the Arab servants brought a quick smile and a polite ahlan.
It always surprised her that Arab slaves were common among the Franks, taken as spoils of war and traded back and forth by the victors like sacks of grain. But then she herself had been acquired by Khalil in much the same manner. She had been captured as a child by Arab raiders and taken from her mountain homeland across the sea to a sheik’s harem. At least they had educated her well, but she was happy to leave when Khalil bought her at the slave auction when she was but ten summers.
The Frankish camp was a filthy place. Flies buzzed everywhere, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell of unwashed bodies and horse dung. At one camp she managed to snatch a fragrant ripe pomegranate from a fruit basket, then gradually worked her way toward the largest of the tents. Made of crimson silk instead of rough canvas, it was easy to pick out among the myriad of smaller ones; a scarlet-and-gold pennant fluttered from the top. If only she could deliver her message now, but it would have to wait. She had to recover Khalil’s dagger. She looked around for her quarry, then halted suddenly. The Frankish knight was approaching from the opposite direction, a scowl on his sun-darkened face. He led his huge horse by a worn leather bridle, and Soraya frowned. Already she had learned that he allowed none other than himself to mount the great black beast. She would not soon forget his look of pure fury when she’d scrambled into the saddle ahead of him.
She watched him with curiosity. He was tall and well muscled. The man was pleasing in some way; perhaps it was his voice, rich as honeyed syrup. Or his eyes.
Pah! It mattered not. He would be a dead man by nightfall.
He strode toward the large tent, his gait slightly uneven, perhaps from an old wound. His warrior’s body must be battle-scarred, and that heavy chain mail shirt and leggings would weigh as much as she did.
Franks were foolish indeed. Arab warriors wore mail, as well, but it was lighter and their horses were smaller and faster. Besides, the Arabs purposely rode mares because when the mating scent was upon them, they wreaked confusion among the heavy Frankish stallions. A great many warhorses had been slaughtered in battle and still the invading Christian armies failed to realise their error.
The knight veered left, away from the great tent of red and gold, and she ducked out of sight behind a smaller, tattered canvas structure to watch him. She would snatch the dagger and then find the king. That was almost as important as avenging Khalil’s death.
The knight skirted several cook fires and made his way to a cluster of boulders two dozen paces from the camp’s perimeter. Soraya circled around and darted forward to the opposite side of the tumbled rocks, crouched low and cautiously peered through an opening.
The first thing she saw was the hindquarters of another horse, a lesser animal than the knight’s beast but well accoutered. The leather saddle was plain but polished to a soft gleam. The wool under blanket was adorned with embroidery and decorative leatherwork detailed the harness. The stirrups were smooth pieces of curved black iron.
On the animal’s back sat a cowled religious man. A monk. Was then ‘her’ Frank—she snorted at the designation—a Templar knight? A Hospitaller? Such knights wore white surcoats with a four-sided red cross sewn on the front, but no such cross emblazoned the knight’s blue surcoat.
He was not a religious, then. Good. It would be harder to slit the throat of a servant of God…
The monk raised his hand in greeting, and the Frank inclined his sun-streaked dark head in response. So, he respected the holy man. The two men exchanged a few words in low tones, only one of which she heard clearly. Jaffa. Then the knight turned away to mount his horse.
She understood at once. They were leaving the camp, riding south to the port town of Jaffa. If she would kill the Frankish knight and retrieve the dagger, she must go with him! She must move now! She would think about how she would come back to the camp and deliver the message to the king later.
She bolted from her hiding place, skittered the few paces to where the Frank stood and threw herself on the hard ground at his feet. ‘Lord, forgive your miserable servant, but I could not find what you commanded me to bring you.’
The tall knight glowered at her without speaking. Soraya dared not look up until she heard his voice.
‘And what was it I commanded you to bring?’ His voice was cold and hard as metal.
‘Why, a horse, lord! You sent me to find another mount. Do you not remember?’ She risked a peek at his knees, then raised her gaze to the wide leather sword belt encircling his waist. Finally, with a murmured prayer, she looked into his harshly planed face.
His expression stopped her heartbeat. Exasperation showed in the set mouth and the frown creasing his sun-darkened forehead, but a hint of grudging admiration flashed in the clear blue eyes. A blue like the azure-enameled mosaic stones on the floor of the mosque. A blue, she suddenly thought, like the sunlit sea of her native land.
‘I recall no such task,’ he said shortly.
Soraya sighed dramatically, flicked a glance at the holy man, then swaggered a step closer to the tall knight. ‘Lord, do you never grow tired of this game? Each morning you command and I obey, and then you forget what you commanded and I appear but a foolish boy.’
‘And an imaginative one,’ he shot back.
‘Oh, yes, lord,’ she agreed, warming to her charade. ‘I can imagine many fine things. But this time…’ She dropped her head in sham embarrassment. ‘This time I have failed. I could not find the horse you sent me for.’
The hooded monk stepped his mount toward them. ‘You have a servant now, de Valery?’ he asked in a raspy voice. ‘Why did you not tell me?’
Her knight snorted. ‘I have no servant.’
‘Do not bluster at me,’ the monk said with a weak laugh. ‘The wind from your mouth will blow this “holy man” off his mount.’
‘Your ma— Father, this boy is not my servant. He has naught to do with me.’
Soraya grasped one of her knight’s gloved hands and sank to her knees before him. Where he traveled, so must she. She would stick to this man like a prickly desert burr. Like a flea under his tunic…like a sticky almond paste smeared over his loathsome skin. She would see him dead if it was the last act of her life.
‘’Tis a sin to lie, lord. You taught me so yourself. I am your servant, and I serve you well and faithfully.’ She touched her forehead to the hand imprisoned in both of hers. ‘Do not deny me, master. Where should I go but with you?’
She let herself slip down to press her brow on his leather boot. Yes. She especially liked that last part.
The monk made an impatient sound, half cough, half oath, and Soraya leaped to her feet. The holy man waved a floppy sleeve at the Frank. ‘Your boy is too young and puny to walk, de Valery. Since you have not another horse, take him up with you and let us be off.’
Her knight grumbled, but the holy man cut him off. ‘I did not bring my own servant lest he tittle-tattle what he knows. It is good to have one, nevertheless. Yours will do.’
The tall knight scowled at the monk, then turned his unsmiling face down at her. Seizing the moment, Soraya sprang onto the horse’s withers, grasped the coarse mane and clawed herself up until she once again occupied the padded leather saddle.
The Frank swore a truly blasphemous oath about the toenails of God, dragged her off and swung himself into the saddle. Then, with a look of distaste, he reached down, grasped her elbow so tightly her arm went numb and swung her up behind him. The expression in his eyes sent a scorpion crawling up her backbone.
She wrapped her arms about his solid form and felt the lumpy hilt of the dagger—her dagger—he carried in his belt poke against her wrist. Her spirits soared. The weapon she needed was right there, within her grasp!
But if she reached for it now, he would pin her arm and break the bone before she could strike. She would wait until he moved or twisted in the saddle and the knife presented itself to her seeking hand.
She hid a smile. She had outmaneuvered the surly Frank with the unwitting help of the Christian holy man. Khalil would have been proud of her.
The great warhorse beneath her snuffled loudly and began to move forward, and Soraya tightened her arms around the knight’s waist. The metal rings of the mail shirt he wore under his knee-length tunic prodded her chin.
God preserve her! Never before had she been so close to any man. Her senses careened crazily, making her aware of every sound and smell, the jingle of harnesses, the low murmur of men waking up, giving orders, breaking their fast, the yeasty scent of baking bread, even the sour taste of the stolen pomegranate seeds on her tongue.
And then with a jolt the horse picked up its pace and she forgot everything but staying seated.
For hours they rode south, toward Jaffa, under the burning desert sun, finally stopping at a small village late in the hot afternoon to refill their water skins at the well. Marc sent the servant boy through the town gate with the empty vessels; he and the king would rest in the protection of a shady olive grove while the lad fetched water.
Exhausted, the ailing king dropped off his horse, stretched out beside his mount and closed his eyes. Marc frowned. Richard had developed a hacking cough, and the inferior horse he had bargained from a dying Templar was slowing their progress. They dared not dally lest someone guess that the monk’s robe, with its ragged moth holes, covered the Lion Heart of England.
He cursed under his breath. No one save Richard’s mother, great Eleanor, had ever been able to reason with the king. To settle his unease, he began to sift handfuls of fine grey dust through his fingers. Had he not sworn to obey the king, Richard would never have ventured outside his tent.
But the king followed his own impulses, regardless of his barons’ arguments. Night after night Marc listened at the noisy council in Richard’s tent and kept quiet. Only when the king asked him a direct question did he venture an opinion, and while Richard listened at length, in the end it always went Richard’s way.
The Lion Heart could do no wrong. Thus far Richard had rolled his seasoned, heavily armed warriors over the Saracen forces with bloody success; in the eyes of his followers, the man was more god than king.
Until now. Marc eyed the motionless form stretched in the shade beside his horse. This was a fool’s plan. A king’s fevered whim.
A sharp cry brought his head up. The servant boy darted through the village gate and raced toward them at such speed he looked to be skimming above the ground. Another cry, this time a gutteral shout, and then Marc saw the reason why the boy ran.
Two—no, three—merchants tumbled through the gate, arms waving. ‘Thief!’ the first man shouted. ‘Stop him!’
The panting boy dashed up to where Marc rested in the olive grove and stopped short. In the next instant he dropped to his knees, jerked up the hem of Richard’s voluminous monk’s garb and wriggled underneath. The robe twitched once and was still.
Scarcely three breaths later, the first merchant puffed to a stop before him. ‘Did you see that boy?’ he said in Arabic.
‘Boy?’ Marc replied in a lazy voice. ‘The skinny one who trampled through our resting place without a by-your-leave?’
‘That’s the one. He stole a loaf of bread and—’
‘And a round of cheese,’ the second man added as he limped to a stop. The third merchant, tall and sallow with one drooping eyelid, gasped for air but said nothing.
Marc idly sifted another handful of dust through his fingers. ‘The boy is gone,’ he said in the same nonchalant tone. ‘Into the olive grove. No doubt at this moment he is scampering on down the hill.’
The merchant swore an inventive oath. Marc understood its earthy implications, but he did not smile.
Two of the men then dashed into the grove. ‘We shall catch him at the crossroads!’ one yelled.
But the third man, the tall, silent merchant, eyed Marc’s black warhorse, then gazed at Richard’s prone body. Slowly he walked toward the ragged, motionless figure on the ground and prodded at the monk with the toe of one boot.

Chapter Four
King Richard sat up partway, propped himself on one elbow and signed an exaggerated cross over his chest. ‘Yes, my son?’ he said to the merchant in a pious voice. ‘Do you wish to confess?’
The man’s eyes blinked. ‘Allahu alukhaim.’
‘There is no god but Allah,’ Marc translated. The merchant backed away, then turned to follow the other two into the olive grove. When the turbaned men were out of sight, Marc spoke, directing his words to the moth-eaten habit on the ground.
‘They are gone, boy. You can come out.’
The wool robe shuddered and the disheveled lad emerged, a delighted smile on his face. ‘I thank you, lord.’ From inside his dust-smudged tunic he pulled a flattened loaf of bread, a dirty-looking hunk of cheese and a handful of dried herbs, which he dumped into a small leather sack at his waist.
‘Aha.’ Marc scowled at the youth. ‘You are a thief after all.’
‘Oh, no, lord.’ A disarming grin lit the boy’s face. ‘Say instead that I am a very skilled borrower.’
Richard chuckled. ‘I say the lad has wit and an enterprising spirit. Considering our situation, de Valery, you may be thankful for such qualities.’ The king straightened, then stood and clapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘You may ride with me, lad.’
The boy blanched.
Marc laughed until his eyes watered. With quick, sure motions the lad stashed the bread and cheese in Marc’s supply bag, grabbed a handful of Jupiter’s thick mane and wrestled himself up into the saddle.
‘Where do we travel now, lord?’
With a sigh, Marc again hauled the youth down off his horse, mounted in his place and lifted the small-boned frame up behind him. ‘There.’ He motioned ahead. ‘To the sea.’
‘Ah!’ The youth jerked in a hissed breath.
Richard climbed onto his sway-backed horse. ‘Pray God there is a ship waiting.’
A ship! Soraya caught her breath in a squeaked-out gasp. A ship that wallowed on the water while filthy men crawled over it like scavenger ants? Her blood turned cold. She prayed to God a ship was not waiting!
She was not afraid of a great many things, but being tossed about on the water was not one of them. She only vaguely recalled such a voyage, but the memory of the experience still haunted her. Her stomach roiled at the thought of standing once more on a ship’s deck.
And, she realised in growing horror, she was getting farther and farther away from Jerusalem and the English king.
She must devise some way to lay her hands on a weapon and end this miserable Frank’s life at once. Twisting her head slightly, she eyed the scabbard hanging from the knight’s belt. Could she slip the sword out? Yes, that might work. Perhaps when he next dismounted. She would ask for a swallow of water. Then, when his attention was diverted to his horse, or the saddle, or the water skins…
Yes! When he reached for the water…
The monk’s rough voice spoke behind them. ‘Look ahead, de Valery.’
‘I see it.’ The destrier stepped up its pace.
Soraya stretched her neck as high as she could to peer over the rise, yet could see nothing but sand and more sand. But when they reached the top of the hill, a cooling breeze brushed her face and all at once there lay the sea ahead of them, smooth as a porcelain plate and so blue the dancing light made it look bejeweled. It was so bright she couldn’t look at it for very long.
And in the harbor—God preserve me!—boats bobbed on the water. Hundreds of them! Fishing vessels. Canopied barges. Arab dhows. Ships with rows of oars and sails and men crawling up and down the masts.
Her mouth went dry. She ducked her head, restudied the position of the knight’s scabbard. It hung at his belt just so, and if he turned to his left, away from her…
The horse moved forward a few yards and halted. ‘Climb down, boy.’
Soraya slid off the destrier’s back so fast she lost her balance and stumbled onto her knees. She clenched her teeth at the holy man’s raspy laugh, and just as she started to scramble to her feet, the Frankish knight grabbed the front of her tunic and heaved her to a standing position. She stood so close to him she could see the beads of sweat on his upper lip.
His glance strayed to the water skins. Now was her chance. She inched her hand toward the protruding hilt of his sword. Focused on the skins, the knight turned away to his left just as her fingers closed over the cold steel.
Lord be praised. She did not have to drag the heavy weapon from its leather covering; the knight’s own motion away from her tipped the scabbard and separated it from the sword she gripped. Then he pivoted toward her, opening his mouth to speak.
Foolish man.
She wrapped both hands around the hilt and heaved the tip of the blade into the air. Lord, but it was heavy, like a great iron sewing needle balanced over her head.
Now. She would crash the weapon down and split his head right between those two puzzled blue eyes. She aimed for his nose and drew in a breath of resolve.
With a surge of strength, she extended the blade over her head as far back as she could and willed the cutting edge down for the killing blow.

Chapter Five
The first thing Soraya became aware of was the sound of laughter. Men’s laughter. Deep voices whooping out guffaws of hilarity.
She opened her eyes. What was she doing flat on the ground?
The knight’s sword lay at an odd angle, just out of her reach. Had she brained him and then fainted? Surely not. She never fainted. The women in the harem had taught her a trick to prevent such a breach of manners. Had that been so long ago she had forgotten?
She spat out a mouthful of grit. ‘What happened?’ Her tongue felt thick as a caliph’s chair cushion.
‘Far less than you expected,’ the holy man said with a chuckle. ‘Certes, I have not enjoyed such a joke since I left England.’
Joke! Speechless, she glared up at the two sets of blue eyes peering down at her. Two sets. So she had not killed her knight. The last thing she remembered was lifting the sword over her head, raising it higher…higher…
She recalled that it took every ounce of strength she possessed. And then what?
Her knight bent forward and hauled her upright by one arm. ‘What do you think happened?’ he growled. ‘The weight of my sword unbalanced you. You toppled over backward.’
He scowled at her while the holy man alternately coughed and chuckled. The look of black fury on the knight’s face sent a cold chill up her spine.
‘I can explain,’ she said quickly. ‘Truly, I—’
‘Don’t even try, boy. Your intent was plain enough.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Silence!’
Soraya shrank away from him. His voice was like thunder when he was angered.
‘Let him be, Marc,’ the monk said. ‘As we have just observed, he is too puny to do much harm. Mayhap he is a better cook than a swordsman.’
‘Oh, indeed yes, lord.’ Soraya grasped at the straw the holy man offered. ‘Not only can I cook, I can prepare healing herbs for your fever and for your catarrh.’ She tried not to grin. ‘From the market-place in the village.’
The monk studied her for a long minute. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.
Her knight frowned at the holy man. ‘But my lor—’
‘What is it, de Valery?’ the monk snapped.
Soraya started. The holy man’s voice was even worse than thunder.
‘My lor— Father,’ de Valery pursued. ‘I ask you to consider the danger.’
‘Danger of what?’ the monk scoffed. ‘The boy wishes to kill you, not me. Anyway, he can do you no harm.’
The knight stepped close to the holy man and said something in a low voice, but the monk shook his cowled head. ‘I order him to stay with us,’ he said in a loud voice. With a hint of laughter he added, ‘In God’s name.’
De Valery clamped his lips shut, wheeled and tramped off toward for the harbor, leading his warhorse.
‘The only question for you, boy—’ the monk chuckled under his raspy breathing ‘—is, are you seaworthy?’

The ship was waiting, as Richard said it would be the night the king had confided his plan. A Genoese merchant ship. God’s blood, Marc thought never to see such a welcome sight. He had always expected to die somewhere in the desert of Syria, and now, in the bustling harbor before him lay hope in the shape of curved timbers roped to the quay and swaying gently with the tide.
He gazed at the vessel so long his eyes watered. He was going home. Out of this desert hell to the heather-carpeted hills of Scotland. He would see his lady mother once more. And, if God had shielded his brother Henry from the infidel, one day soon Marc would dandle Henry’s sons on his knee.
It fell to Henry, as the oldest son, to carry on the family name and govern the de Valery lands. Marc had never resented it. He had never wanted land or titles or riches such as other second sons coveted. His years in Outremer had taught him well: life itself was more precious than wealth.
He loved Henry. Admired him. Shared with him a bond no woman would ever understand, certainly not Jehanne, who waited for Marc at Rossmorven Keep. When he returned from the Crusade, he would marry his betrothed, as arranged by their parents many years before, and get a son on her. Perhaps many sons.
Ah, God, he had thought his chance to roam the hills and heal his wounded soul would never come.
With a start he realised Richard was speaking to him. ‘De Valery?’
Richard cleared his throat and began again. ‘We will not wait for nightfall. We will board now. Come.’ The king moved his mount forward, toward the ship. ‘Bring the boy.’
The lad went still as a post. ‘Oh, no, lord. Onto a ship? That I cannot.’
Marc turned toward the stricken voice. God almighty, the boy’s face had gone white as goat’s milk.
Richard twisted in the saddle and peered down at the servant. ‘Why can you not?’ he inquired sharply.
Soraya froze. If she wanted to avenge Khalil’s death, as she had sworn, she must board this ship. If she wanted to retrieve the dagger, as she knew she must, she had to board this ship. She shut her eyes tight.
‘Move!’ the holy man growled. ‘Do as you are told.’
Her thoughts tumbled in her brain like drunken butterflies. She could not bring herself to walk onto the ship.
But she must. An oath bound her mortal soul.
Ahead of her, the monk dismounted, led his horse to the rough wooden gangplank and clattered up onto the ship. The Frankish knight pivoted and sent her look of such disgust Soraya shut her eyes. When she opened them, two bare-legged seamen sprang onto the dock and began untying the thick mooring ropes. A sail went up and the ship shuddered to life.
Her quarry was leaving! She could not let him escape, and besides he still had the dagger.
Without pausing to let herself think, she raced down the quay and leaped from the edge of the dock. Her fingers scrabbled at the ship’s splintery wooden deck and the next thing she knew cold seawater was closing over her head.
So, she was to die then, her soul condemned. She opened her mouth, gulped in water. Breathe! You must breathe!
She bobbed to the surface to see hands reaching out for her.
‘Vite! Vite,’ a voice yelled. A rope sailed out and dropped onto the water. Soraya struggled toward it, looped it twice around her waist and held on tight.
Men towed her toward the ship. Her body bounced and scraped along the wooden siding until she flopped onto the deck and lay like a beached fish, spitting up seawater.
A swarthy, black-haired man stalked over, drew back his boot and kicked her hard in the ribs. He shouted something in a language she did not recognise, but when the holy man advanced and spoke some words in the same language, everyone fell silent. To her, the monk uttered a single sentence. ‘Come. It is not your fault.’
She scrambled to the monk’s side, clutched the coarse wool robe with both hands. He leaned down to her, but the Frankish knight snagged the back of her sopping tunic and slid her backward across the wet deck until she rested at his feet.
Soraya bit down on a scream. He would kill her now. He would have let her drown but for the holy man’s interference. She glanced up in a kind of stupor, her eyes stinging from the seawater, her attention held by his hard gaze.
The holy man and the knight exchanged a long look, and then the knight yanked her upright before him. She cried out at the stabbing pain in her ribs, but when his dark, glittering eyes met hers she gasped with fear.
‘Do not hurt me.’ She tried to speak with authority, but her voice trembled. ‘I am but a small and humble creature of God, and—’
‘Hush,’ he snapped. ‘While you are on this ship, you are to remain quiet and out of the way. And stay away from me. I trust you not. And avoid him, as well.’ He tipped his head to indicate the monk, who was turning away.
‘Yes, lord. I will serve you well, I promise.’
‘Your word is false,’ he said. ‘I need no servant. Especially one who has twice proved quick with a knife. And he—’ the blue eyes flicked to the monk ‘—needs no boy. Do you understand me?’
Soraya gaped at him. She understood nothing, but the intense light in her knight’s gaze warned her of some danger. Yet why would he be concerned? She was his sworn enemy.
The ship lurched under her feet. A sickening dizziness brought her hand to her mouth, and suddenly she didn’t care what the knight was saying. She was going to be sick.

Chapter Six
The galley shuddered under Marc’s feet, and the two horses, tied to the thick rail, snorted and stamped their hooves to regain their balance. He smoothed his hands over Jupiter’s quivering hide and tightened the tether so he would not injure himself.
A seaman scampered up the mast to unfurl the single sail. On either side of the ship the rowers grunted and leaned into their oars. The vessel cut through the sea swells like a blade through a ripe melon.
Richard lounged at the far end of the desk on a makeshift pallet of hemp sacks that smelled of rotting fruit. ‘Stop pacing and get some rest, de Valery.’
‘I will not rest until we dock in Cyprus, God willing.’
‘The Templars will offer us lodging,’ Richard assured him with a crafty smile. ‘Especially when the good knights learn who now holds the island.’
Marc need not ask who. On his journey to Jerusalem, Richard had overrun Cyprus—fortress, vineyards, Templar bank and all. What the king wanted, the king took. ‘Why does control over that island matter more than a gnat’s dinner?’
The king’s gaze drifted to where the servant boy squatted next to a bowl of herbs and wine he was warming over an oil lamp. ‘I have my reasons.’
Marc grunted. Richard never did anything without a reason. He was a royal, and with Great Eleanor at his back, the king of England was invincible. Even his brother John feared him. But with Richard on crusade in Outremer, John’s meddling fingers crawled greedily into the honey pot that was England. Richard had to stop him.
The servant boy rose abruptly, dashed to the rail and leaned his head over it. The choked sound of retching made Marc’s own stomach clench. When the bout was over, the lad dragged his sleeve across his mouth and staggered back to Richard’s bedside. The turban wound about his head had loosened; strands of straggly dark hair were plastered to the pasty forehead.
‘Are you still seasick, boy?’ Richard’s meaty hand patted the thin arm.
‘Aye, lord. I do not like ships or sailing.’ The boy lifted the king’s head and tipped a few spoonfuls of the herb concoction past his lips. Richard grimaced, swallowed, grimaced again, and the boy settled the empty bowl beside the lamp. ‘Soon you will be well, lord.’
Again the lad rose and wobbled toward the ship’s rail. ‘I am in your debt,’ the king breathed at his retreating back.
Marc pressed his lips into a thin line. ‘I would have a care, were it my belly the boy dribbles his noxious mixture into.’
‘I’ve been guzzling his potion since afternoon, de Valery. As you can plainly see, I am growing stronger by the hour.’
It was true. For the first time in a month the ailing king rested peaceful as a babe, and the flush of fever no longer coloured his cheeks.
‘The lad has some skill in herbal brews,’ Marc allowed. ‘You have struck up some sort of bond with him,’ he continued carefully. ‘No doubt you are right—the boy wants only my life, not yours.’
‘Ah, yes. I want to keep him close.’
Marc jerked at the word. He could not say why he felt the least bit protective of the thieving little wretch, but he did. Nor did he trust the innocent look in the lad’s sea-green eyes. He would lay not a single farthing on the truth of anything the boy uttered. Still, he felt oddly protective of him.
Possessive, even.
‘The lad is my servant, not yours. I would like him to stay near me after all. If he manages to stop trying to attack me, he could come in useful.’
Richard’s eyes turned to steel. ‘You are impudent, de Valery.’
‘I am honest,’ Marc countered. He turned away to his own pallet. ‘As you well know.’
The sun dropped into the sea at their back, painting the cloud-splattered sky gold and then purple. Once more the lad left the rail, walked unsteadily to the king’s pallet, his face grey as moldy bread. Almost at once, he pivoted and raced back to the railing.
‘When the ship reaches Cyprus,’ Richard said casually, ‘we can turn the boy over to the Templars.’
Marc said nothing.
‘Good herbalists are always welcome in a warrior stronghold,’ Richard added.
Aye, so they were. Marc thought a moment, then dug into his canvas bag for the bread and cheese the boy had stolen in the village. Bless this food, Lord, and think not on how we came by it. While he sliced off slabs of cheese with his eating knife, he watched the lad hang over the side of the ship. By now the boy’s belly must be empty as a Greek’s wine jug.
Dusk fell, and still the boy retched. God, the lying little scamp was paying for his sins. He felt halfway sorry for the lad.
‘You said you were seasick once,’ Richard said without opening his eyes. ‘When you were but a boy, you told me. Tossing on the Firth of Dornoch in a coracle, as I recall.’
Marc swallowed at the memory. ‘True,’ he grated. ‘And when my brother Henry and I sailed for France for our fostering, our uncle said I looked green as river moss when we docked. Do not remind me.’
‘With the boy ailing,’ Richard continued with a chuckle, ‘you can sleep tonight without worry. He is too sick to plunge a dagger into your gut.’
‘Aye, that is true enough.’
‘Tomorrow though, when he recovers, I will have need of him.’
Marc blinked but did not reply. We shall see. King or not, the devious lad was Marc’s responsibility. And there was yet more, he admitted. Enemy or no, something in those green eyes pulled at him.

Soraya gripped the deck railing until her fingers went numb. The briny smell of the sea alone made her gorge rise; being tossed about on the blue-black swells was worse than dying. She flashed a look over her shoulder. Five more heartbeats and she would let go of the rail and try her legs.
The monk slept soundly, his breathing less raspy and his fever lessened, thanks to her tea of lemon balm and thyme. The other one, the knight de Valery, lay some distance away, but she could not tell whether he slept or not.
She watched the inky water below stir into a froth by the ploughing ship. Her chest muscles ached from throwing her stomach contents into the sea. She would not last in such misery until the ship reached Cyprus.
In Cyprus, once she felt better, she could get her dagger back and then disappear into the populace and search out King Richard. The people spoke her tongue, as well as the mangled French of the Normans, even Greek. Sometimes she wondered if Uncle Khalil had chosen her at the slave auction for her skill at languages. Certainly it was not for her beauty; six years ago, when she was but ten summers, even the promise of beauty was a hazy dream on the far horizon of her life.
She uncurled one hand from the smooth wooden rail and flexed her stiff fingers. Slowly she lifted her other hand and stood swaying on watery legs. If she could manage to reach the holy man, she could lie down on those foul-smelling sacks and rest. She had always felt somewhat uneasy around men, probably because of her years sequestered in the zenana, but the old monk seemed harmless.
She could not say the same for the knight de Valery.
Halfway across the deck she dropped to her hands and knees and ducked her head. The queasy feeling flooded through her; bitter saliva poured into her mouth. She clamped her lips tight shut and waited, controlling her breathing. After a moment she crawled forward, toward the sleeping monk, and then hesitated, remembering the knight’s words. Stay away from him.
It made no sense, but perhaps it would be better to lie on the other side of the holy man, near de Valery. And await her chance to seek revenge. Before this night bled into dawn, she would keep her vow and kill the Frankish knight.
Hunched on all fours, she reached his pallet, bent over him and surveyed the knight’s supine body. Already he slept like a dead man, his mouth hanging open, hands at his side. But he was very much alive. His chest and belly rose and fell at each breath.
The hilt of a small knife protruded from his sword belt. God be praised, she could do it now!
Carefully she placed one hand on his tunic, then slid it downward, fingering her way inch by inch over the linen. Warmth rose from his body. He snorted suddenly, closed his mouth and rolled his head to the other side.
When she calmed her heartbeat, she moved her fingers onto his worn leather belt and groped for the weapon. It was not her jeweled dagger, but it was a blade at any rate. God willing, it would do as well. She prayed it was sharp.
She waited, caressing the small metal hilt, matching her breathing to his. In. Out. Then another sleepy snuffle.
Very slowly she lifted the knife away from his belt and moved her hand upward, toward his unshaven chin. Eyeing his neck where the tunic gaped open, she drew the blade toward herself and tested the edge with her thumb. Should she plunge the point into the hollow at the base of his throat? Or slice sideways from ear to ear?
The Frank drew in an extra-deep breath and flopped one arm over his head. The cords in his neck rippled and then relaxed. Soraya leaned closer and raised the blade.
A pulse throbbed in his throat. She watched his heart beat and rest…beat and rest. She could not take her eyes off that faint flutter of life.
She tensed her muscles, drew her arm back to give her added force when the blade bit into the skin. His heart pumped steadily on. She listened to his breathing, watched the air enter his open lips and whistle back out. In…and then out.
She shut her eyes, enacted each step of the deed in her mind to prepare herself.
Now.
Her muscles bunched. She ground her teeth together and bent forward, hand raised level with her head, and stopped her breathing.
To her horror she found she could not move. Some otherworldly force seemed to grip her arm and hold it motionless. Trembling, she sat back and lowered the knife. She could not do it. Lord have mercy. I cannot take this man’s life. I cannot.
She stared at the blade. An eating knife, for cutting meat and bread. A simple, small weapon. She could easily toss it into the sea afterward.
But she could not kill him.
She closed her eyes in disgust. Am I then such a coward? I have not the heart of the weakest harem slave, the most spineless beggar in the market square. Lord, let me die now in shame.
She turned the blade in her hand, pointed it at her own chest, then lowered it until the sharp tip scratched her tunic just below her sore ribs. Above her head, the rigging creaked.
She clasped her other hand over the hilt to drive it deep, sucked in a shuddery breath and held it. She must be strong.
A fist shot out and grasped her forearm. The knife went skittering across the desk, and a cry of despair rose from her lips.
‘You pesky fool of a boy,’ the knight’s voice hissed. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘I swore an oath,’ she said, trying not to sob. ‘I have failed.’
‘An oath!’ he snapped in a voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Think you that Allah hears an oath taken to commit a mortal sin?’
‘I swore not to Allah. I am a Christian.’
‘A Christian?’ For an instant surprise showed on his face, then was quickly masked. ‘All the more sinful,’ he growled.
Soraya rocked back on her heels. He thought she had intended to take only her own life! He was unaware of her original intent.
The knight rose up on one elbow, still gripping her wrist. ‘Do you imagine that God cares whether you live or die? What do you gain by sacrificing yourself? Honour? Wealth? Your name chiseled onto a stone in the desert?’
‘I gain self-respect.’ She spoke in jerky syllables, her voice clogged with hiccupy sobs.
He spat off to one side. ‘Self-respect.’
Soraya clamped her jaw tight to stop her weeping. Her body shook violently, her limbs twitching as if she had contracted the plague.
She dropped her chin to her chest and let hot tears drip onto her tunic. Think! What should she do now? The knight released her wrist, and she heard him exhale with a catch.
‘Aye, ye poor dumb lad. Come here.’ A strong arm reached to her shoulder and tugged her forward, and she tumbled against his hard chest. Overcome by her cowardice, she felt worse than seasick.
With a gentle hand he pressed her head against his warm neck. ‘Sha, sha, now. No one need know of your great failure.’
Soraya closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled of sweat and horse and a pungent spice, like cinnamon.
She swallowed, feeling a wash of heat course through her body. She wanted to taste him! Never before had she experienced such a strange feeling of excitement. Of…yearning.
She stiffened. He was a man. And a Frank.
She scrambled away from him, her heart beating like a caged bird inside her chest. Speechless, she stared into the knight’s face, watching his eyes harden, then narrow with distrust.
‘You are afraid of me.’
‘No, lord. Truly I am not.’’
‘You need not fear me, lad. I will not harm you except to protect myself.’
‘That is not why—’
But it was. She did fear him. More than any danger she had ever faced, this man threatened her. He was dangerous simply because he was a man.
No, not just a man. Her throat tightened. This man.

Chapter Seven
By the time the ship docked at Paphos on the western coast of Cyprus, Soraya could scarcely stand. Weak from retching, saddened by Khalil’s death and still stupefied at her inability to slay the knight de Valery, she clung to the railing watching the activity on shore.
Genoese merchants in flowing robes swaggered along the smelly quay, arguing with ship captains and food vendors. Templar knights with cross-emblazoned white surcoats surreptitiously eyed women who promenaded along the harbor walkway in provocative sheer caftans, their nails and cheeks painted red. Houries. The noise of the harbour gave her a headache. If she debarked, the crush of people at the dock would swallow her up.
‘Move on, then, lad.’ De Valery strode past her, leading his dark stallion toward the gangplank. ‘You will recover your sea legs by suppertime.’
Her throat convulsed. The thought of food made her nauseated.
‘Soray!’ the knight shouted at her from the top of the gangplank. ‘Make haste!’
Still, she could not let go of the ship’s rail. She knew little of this teeming place before her, full of unbelievers. She belonged in Palestine.
But in Palestine the man who sent the message she now carried for Khalil would kill rather than have it fall into the wrong hands. She glanced back toward her homeland and shuddered.
She could not go back. Perhaps even now an assassin was tracking her down to slit her throat in some shadowed alley. She sucked in a lungful of hot air that smelled of fish and thought she would be sick again.
‘Soray!’ His sharp tone cut through the cottony feeling inside her head and she stumbled forward.
‘Aye, lord, I am coming.’
De Valery tramped halfway up the gangplank, grasped the neck of her tunic and dragged her forward. ‘Hold on to Jupiter,’ he instructed. He thrust the animal’s brushy tail into her hands. ‘Now, lad, move!’
She took a single step, wobbled off to one side and would have tipped into the sea had she not accidentally stumbled against the horse’s hind end. By some miracle the beast did not strike out with his rear hooves, and she staggered after the animal, acutely aware of the knight’s quiet laughter.
So, he was amused at her plight, was he? He would be less amused if she tossed up her stomach contents onto his mount’s beautifully plumed tail. Better yet, on his blue surcoat.
Her head spun as he stalked beside her.
‘Steady, now. Move quickly, boy. We must not lose sight of the…monk.’ He stretched out his long legs and tramped down the walkway so fast Soraya could not keep up.
She loosened her grasp on the destrier’s tail and sped up her pace until she could touch the animal’s withers. Biting her lip, she gazed at the stallion’s saddle. Without thinking she flexed her knees, sprang upward and dug the fingers of both hands into the coarse hair of his mane. She clawed her way up into the saddle and clutched at the high pommel. Her brain reeled from the effort.
‘God!’ the knight muttered under his breath. ‘You are part mountain goat.’
‘Nay, lord, I am part lioness.’
Instantly she saw her mistake.
De Valery’s face tipped up to look at her, his eyes questioning. ‘Lioness? Not a lion?’
She shook her head quickly to cover her lapse. ‘You know nothing of such matters,’ she blurted. Another mistake, this time much worse. A servant did not contradict his lord.
He narrowed his sea-blue eyes. ‘Nothing, you say?’ His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. ‘What do I not know, besides the impudence of a servant boy?’
His shadowed gaze caught hers and held it. With all her will she tried to look away, but she could not. It was as if he conjured away the noisy market-place, the cries of hawkers, the shouts of seamen until her senses swam in a giant cocoon of silence.
‘I did but mean…’ Her dry tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She looked away to the left where a huge fortress loomed, built of grey stone with crenellated walls and square towers. Some great lord must live there, watching over his ships.
‘I see more than is apparent,’ he grumbled. ‘Things are often not what they seem, and Saladin is a master of such tricks.’
‘The Christians, too, use tricks.’
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘The Christians, as well.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘Not only have you an agile tongue but there is a quick intelligence hidden under your dusty head covering. How is it you were a mere servant to your uncle?’
The horse sidestepped to avoid a ripe melon escaping from a nearby cart, and Soraya swayed in the saddle. Dizzy, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She did not want to answer his question, so feigned sickness.
‘Can you see the monk?’ he asked.
‘Yes, lord.’ She spoke through her fingers, tight against her lips. ‘He stops to mount his horse, and now rides on toward that fortress ahead.’
‘Good.’ Marc had feared the impulsive, headstrong king would pursue some military diversion in the city. Instead it appeared that Richard would seek shelter. God, he would bear close watching. A healthy Richard was harder to reason with than an ailing Richard. And there were those who would not weep to see him dead.
‘Keep your eyes on him, lad. He can be more slippery than an oiled mackerel.’
‘Yes, lord. But if I may respectfully suggest, if you mounted we could move faster.’
Marc grunted. ‘If I mounted, you would then walk?’
The lad fell silent. Hah! Marc guessed the boy would rather concede the matter than climb down from his hard-won perch on none-too-steady legs.
Marc reached for the water skin, uncorked the vessel and took a long pull, then handed it to the boy.
‘I dare not drink, lord. I fear I will not keep it down.’
‘Better that than die of thirst. Such an end is not pretty.’
A drawbridge manned by an unseen guard blocked entry into the fortress. Marc stopped some paces away as a voice boomed from the narrow window slit in the square stone gatehouse. ‘Who seeks entry at the gate of the Templar knights?’
‘A friend,’ Marc called. ‘A knight of the Scots and a holy man of God.’
‘What names?’ the voice barked back.
‘Marc de Valery and…’ He hesitated. Would Richard reveal himself once safely inside these walls? If so, Marc would be caught in a lie.
‘…and a monk lately come from Jerusalem. Simon the…hermit.’ He ignored the king’s choked protest behind him.
‘Hermit, indeed,’ Richard muttered. The boy, Soray, twisted in the saddle and shot an interested look at the cowled figure.
‘He is not a hermit, then?’ the lad whispered. ‘I thought him one of those chosen by God.’
‘You think too much,’ Marc replied in a cold voice. Not only was Richard not a monk, he was most assuredly not a holy man. Not a man loved by the crusading barons from France and Germany.
‘Yes, lord, that is true, I do think too much. I think about the moon and the stars, about the water that bubbles out of the desert, about—’
‘Enough! Think instead where we shall sleep tonight if we are not welcomed by the Templars.’ He eyed the gatekeeper’s shadow behind the narrow window. ‘We are godly men. We seek shelter and permission to hear mass in your chapel.’
‘Christians, then,’ came the voice. ‘Of Rome or Constantinople?’
‘We speak the words of God in humble Latin, not in Greek.’ Behind him, Richard snorted in impatience and stepped his horse forward. ‘Tell the fool we demand admittance. Tell the grand master that the conquerer of—’
Marc wheeled and gripped the king’s arm. ‘Quiet!’
Richard glared at him, his face reddening. ‘You overstep, de Valery.’
‘I am commanded to protect your person. It would be well to follow my lead.’ Richard was brave, but he was arrogant. No wonder Leopold hated him.
‘Ha!’ the king shot. ‘I am leader here.’
‘It matters not who leads,’ Marc asserted, ‘but who survives. Let me negotiate our entrance, lest you nettle yon keeper. Warm honey works better than cold demands.’
Richard sat back in his saddle. ‘Ah, the honeybee has a sting! Very well, de Valery, proceed.’
But already the grinding of the drawbridge over the wide moat sounded in their ears. The king turned his head toward Marc and grinned. ‘You win. This time.’
Marc stifled an oath. Richard was more boy than man at times. How he loved a jest, a game of skill, even quarrelling with his sworn protector. How was it England had survived two generations of Plantagenets?
He led Jupiter forward over the heavy oiled planks, paused while the portcullis ratcheted noisily upward with the clanking of metal chain, then advanced into the outer bailey. Richard followed, mercifully silent for a change.
Once inside, the groaning drawbridge rose and the toothed portcullis wheel rattled its way twice around. Marc waited. He could smell the stables, the harsh scent of hot metal wafting from the smithy’s shed.
De Valery peered up at her. ‘Still seasick, are you, boy?’
She nodded, feeling tears sting against her upper lids. Her eyes burned when she retched so she knew what was coming. She clamped her lips tight together.
Just when she felt her control beginning to slip, squires tumbled out the inner gate, followed by four mounted knights armed with steel-tipped lances.
‘What in God’s name…’ Marc pulled his horse forward to shield the unarmed monk, then rode forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Hold!’ The monk stood up in his stirrups and raised one arm above his head in an imperious gesture, as if he expected to stop the setting of the sun. A bold move for a man of God.
‘Devil-blessed fool of a man,’ the knight admonished. His eyes glittered like two blue jewels.
The monk swore. ‘You are worse than Becket. Once appointed archbishop, he thought he was king.’
‘Aye,’ muttered the Scot. ‘Beware of honest men.’
The monk spit out a laugh, but sank back in his saddle once more. ‘So it would seem. An honest man would guard a life in spite of its owner. Your pardon, de Valery.’
Marc threw him a hard look and allowed the armed knights to form an escort around them. One of the men gestured, and the monk dismounted. They were moving toward the wooden steps leading to the heavy-timbered fortress when suddenly the holy man halted.
‘Do not send the servant boy to the kitchen,’ he announced. ‘He comes with us.’
Soraya saw the muscles in the knight’s jaw tighten. Before he could speak, she clambered off the destrier and slipped in between the monk and de Valery. They moved forward, the knight in front of her, the monk behind, until the armed guards wheeled their mounts away.
Squires came and took their horses away to be cared for, then the three of them clattered up the steps and were swallowed into the cold grey walls of the keep.

Chapter Eight
The vast timber-roofed hall echoed with the clank of wine cups and orders shouted to the table servants by the single burly figure at the high table. Hounds lolled on the rush-covered floor, snapping up dropped tidbits of meat and bone. The din was deafening, the sounds so loud and ugly Soraya clapped her hands over her ears. Had these Templar Knights no fine carpets or cushions on which to recline? No timbrels or lutes to calm the soul?
She watched Marc follow a servant to the high table, the holy man at his heels. Both were seated on either side of a heavyset man with sun-coloured hair. Suddenly she stood alone in the great hall that stank of sweat and wine.
‘You there!’ a pimply-faced youth yelled in the Norman tongue. ‘Sit you at the end of the servants’ table.’ He pointed toward the back of the hall where a group of chattering boys sat at a trestle far back in the shadows. Some wore Arab-style tunics and head wraps. Others, younger and bareheaded, wore ragged shirts that hung down over skinny, hose-covered legs.
‘Merci,’ she managed. The air reeked of grease and offal, and as she seated herself on the long bench, her stomach erupted. No one paid her any attention! In the zenana she would have been cosseted with cool cloths and iced sherbet while slaves cleaned the floor. Here, the hounds made quick work of her disgrace.
She sank onto the rough plank bench and lowered her head. God help me to endure this hellish place.
Only the high table was covered with a cloth. The trestle where she sat was bare wood, stained and smelly from previous meals. The other servants were fighting over a haunch of roasted meat, knocking over wine cups and scattering a bowl of sugared nuts across the table.
‘Better get busy, boy, if you want to eat.’ The voice came from a chubby red-headed youth on her left.
She answered in the Norman tongue. ‘I do not wish to eat.’
‘Then you don’t work hard enough,’ spoke a deeper voice at her right. ‘One day of service in this keep and you will beg for scraps.’
‘I am not hungry,’ she protested in a quiet tone.
‘Eat!’ he insisted. ‘Mangez!’
The others took up the cry, like a chant. ‘Mangez…mangez…mangez.’ The noise made her head buzz.
‘Let’s have a look at you.’ The red-haired boy prodded her shoulder. Instinctively she pulled away.
‘O-ho, he’s a shy one! And bony, too,’ he said, pinching her arm.
She jerked free, then leveled her gaze at each of the shouting boys, now rhythmically slapping their palms onto the table top. ‘Mangez…mangez.’
‘I will not.’ Inside she trembled with fear, but she would never let it show. Khalil’s training had taught her such control that she could endure a knife cut without flinching.
‘Oh, aye, you will eat,’ the deep-voiced boy next to her rumbled in her ear. He jabbed her in the ribs with his sharp elbow. ‘Mangez,’ he whispered. ‘Now! Or I will cram it down your throat.’
Marc looked up at the sudden noise at the far end of the hall. Some chant or other at the servants’ table. He scanned the benches until he found Soray, seated between a chunky-looking lad and a half-grown stripling with a mop of silvery hair and a curved back. As he watched, the taller boy jammed his elbow into Soray’s side. Marc’s hand closed into a fist.
The Templar grand master Giles Amaury leaned forward. ‘You were saying, de Valery?’
‘What? Ah, yes, the siege in Jerusalem. It goes badly for both sides. The Christian forces have scant food remaining, and the infidel has none, but he controls the water holes.’
He watched the white-haired lad again drive his elbow into Soray’s side. Soray twisted away, then clenched both fists and rammed them hard into his attacker’s groin. Marc winced. He almost pitied the boy.
The fat one on the other side edged away, then shot one hand out and flicked Soray’s cheek. In the next instant that boy, too, bent groaning over his belly.
The other servants at that table fell silent. Then someone across from Soray reached to fill his wooden wine cup. But instead of drinking…
The grand master tapped Marc’s metal trencher with his eating knife. ‘You are distracted, de Valery.’
Marc jerked. ‘My lord Amaury?’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Soray deliberately dump his wine cup into the lap of one of the injured lads. God! Small though he was, Soray was both brave and clever; the lad would have made a fine knight.
Giles Amaury paused to catch Marc’s eye. ‘And then that ninny Richard of England cut a swath through the enemy as if he were scything a wheat field. There were Christians among the Muslim ranks, but even so, he cut down every man. Christians!’
Marc sent a covert glance toward the monk on Amaury’s other side. Richard’s head was bowed. The robe-covered arm did not so much as twitch, but the fingers of the extended hand drummed rhythmically against the table covering.
‘True enough,’ Marc said slowly. ‘England’s king may be a better leader than a statesman. But, faced with an ambush of mixed troops, only a fool would stop to separate out the chaff.’
‘The man is dangerous,’ the grand master shot. ‘A fool in fine armour.’
Marc set down his flagon of sweet Cyprus wine with a clunk. ‘Richard may be many things, but he is not a fool.’
The king’s fingers stilled. ‘I think, de Valery, that your young servant needs rescuing from yon table.’
Marc strained his eyes but could see nothing further amiss. ‘I think not. The lad has declawed the lions, both of them.’
Richard’s penetrating blue eyes sought his. ‘Look again.’
It was an order, not a polite request. Marc understood at once. Richard would be private with the Templar grand master.
‘You are right,’ Marc amended. ‘Young Soray looks to be in need of…direction.’ In truth, young Soray had things well in hand, but Marc quickly excused himself and started across the hall toward the servants’ table.
‘De Valery!’ the grand master abruptly called at his back.
Marc halted.
‘I would not wish you to roam freely about this keep. My servant will conduct you to your guest quarters.’
A moment of silence, then the low murmur of voices resumed, the disguised king’s and the grand master’s. What mischief was Richard stirring up now?
A paunchy, grey-haired man in a white surcoat appeared out of the gloom, sidestepping both hounds and refuse without breaking his stride. ‘This way, sir knight. Follow me.’
Marc stopped at the servants’ table and spoke at Soray’s back. ‘Come on, lad. To bed.’
Soray scrambled off the bench, resisting the impulse to throw her arms around her rescuer. ‘Oh, thank you, lord. Thank you!’
‘That tired, are you?’ he said, an edge in his low voice.
‘Oh, no, not tired,’ she blurted. ‘But I have been…quite busy here.’
‘Ah,’ said her knight. ‘Commendable aim you have.’
She gaped up at him. ‘You saw?’
‘I saw.’
Soraya flinched. His world, even the small part of it she had seen, was ugly beyond words, full of rudeness and noise and awful smells. She hated it.
But she did not hate him. On the contrary, she was beginning to like him. He roared and grumbled, but he did not strike. He fed her, warmed her at his fire, protected her from angry merchants…even laughed at her remarks. Apparently he found her acceptable company.
She followed him out of the great hall and up a winding staircase, the stone steps unevenly worn with long use. Up and up it went, curving always to her right. By the second landing, she was so dizzy she feared she would stagger off the edge. Blindly she reached out toward her knight, caught a handful of his tunic and held on.
‘Better than the tail of a horse, is it?’ he said over his shoulder. The amusement she heard in his rough voice made her grin.
‘Much better, lord,’ she said at his back. ‘A horse could never climb such steps as these.’
He chuckled and shortened his steps. ‘But a horse has no need for guest quarters in a Templar keep.’
They both laughed.
On the next landing, the grey-haired man led them down a short hallway, through a wooden door that screeched on rusty hinges and into a small chamber with a single window cut into the stone wall.
‘Here it is, my lord,’ the man puffed. ‘Fine view. See all over the city, you can.’ He surveyed Soraya with a measuring eye. ‘Mind you don’t lean out too far past the shutters, boy. Many a young page has found himself swimming upside down in the moat.’
She stared at the window and fought down a shudder.
‘Anything you be wantin’ from the kitchen my lord?’
‘Hot water and soap,’ de Valery replied.
‘I’ll send it up with a page. Don’t think I can manage this climb more than once a night.’
Water and soap? ‘You would bathe?’ she blurted. Here, in front of her?
‘I would,’ he snapped.
‘Now?’
‘Aye, lad, now,’ he growled with impatience. ‘What better time?’
The old man started for the door. ‘You’ll be wantin’ a large tub for the likes of one tall as yerself. I’ll see to it.’
From the rank smell of bodies in the dining hall, she knew that knights did not bathe often. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. In a few moments de Valery intended to disrobe; as his servant she would be expected to help him shed his garments and then…
She swallowed hard. She had never before seen a full-grown man naked.
‘What ails you, lad? Help me get these boots off.’
She ducked her head and tugged at the spurs and the tarnished buckles on his blackened leather boots.

Chapter Nine
It took seven buckets of steaming water to fill the wooden tub. The last servant, panting from his exertions, set a bowl of soap, a cloth and a towel on the floor next to the tub, and by the time the door closed after him, the knight was shrugging off his tunic.
‘Open the window. I smell like no rose.’
‘Oh, no, lord, you smell just as you should!’ The words spattered out of Soraya’s mouth like sand blown in a wind-storm. ‘You need not bathe at all. You smell…just like a rose. A musky one, like the pink rose my uncle Khalil trained over an—’
‘Enough!’ he roared. He began stripping his legs free of the mail stockings. Soraya looked everywhere but at him, the fireplace set deep in the thick stone wall where lazy flames threw out a flickering light; the simple rope chair upon which he draped his discarded garments.
‘Don’t stand goggling, boy. Give me a hand with this mail and my hauberk.’
Soraya stepped forward. Don’t think. Just do as you must. Three hard tugs and the mail shirt rolled off his torso with a soft crunch. Then she untied the laces of the padded hauberk underneath.
‘The window,’ he reminded, his voice tight.
She swung the shutters as wide as they would go, gulped in the soft, scented night air. Below her, the moat gurgled as if in warning.
She was his servant, but she could not look at him. When she finally gathered her courage and turned back to the knight, he stood before her completely naked. She caught her hand to her mouth.
His body was beautiful, his chest hard-muscled, his waist narrow. His entire form looked lean and hard, as if chiseled out of stone. In spite of herself, her gaze drifted lower, to his battle-scarred thighs. And his…
Oh, my. Her breath whistled in through her teeth. That, too, was handsomely formed.
She looked away. ‘My uncle Khalil has a fine house,’ she stuttered. ‘In Damascus. With fine carpets and hammered silver chests, and the linen always spotless. And—’
‘What on earth are you chattering about?’
‘I was speaking of my uncle’s house,’ she said quickly. She knew she was talking nonsense to a knight who cared nothing about the house in Damascus, but it was all she could think of to distract herself. ‘I had a private bathing pool in my quarters. Heated. I bathed ev—’
‘You had your own quarters, did you?’ he said, his voice sharp. ‘A servant? Huh! You are a skillful liar, boy, but you do not fool me.’
He made a half turn away from her and lifted one bare foot into the tub. She forced her gaze to the floor, inspected the bowl of soap, the linen towel. She heard a splash and a groan of satisfaction, and she could not resist raising her head.
He was leaning back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed, a tired smile on his lips. ‘Start at my neck,’ he said in a drowsy voice.
Soraya went perfectly still. He wanted her to…touch him? Touch the naked flesh of a man?
‘Soray?’ came the grumbly voice. ‘Make haste, lad.’
She knelt quickly beside the tub, reached for the cloth and lifted the bowl of soap. It was runny and smelled of sheep fat. She looked at his chest, at the bulges of muscle, the sprinkling of black hairs around his flat, brown nipples, his bare forearms resting on the tub edge. A peculiar feeling lodged deep in her belly.
‘One moment, lord,’ she murmured. She could not sully his wondrous body with soap such as this. She set the wooden bowl down. Yanking open the leather pouch she carried under her tunic, she poured in half a palmful of aromatic rosemary leaves, then plunged her hand in the mess and squashed the herbs into it. When it smelled fresh and pungent instead of rancid, she scooped up a glob with two fingers and dribbled it onto his bare skin.
‘Ah, smells good,’ he said.
‘So will you within the hour,’ she said without thinking.
‘So I do stink, do I?’ He laughed softly. ‘Small wonder. One Christian legion could flatten an entire army of Saracens just from the stench of our bodies.’
He did not stink. He smelled of sweat and leather, and his breath, when he blew it out, smelled of wine. But he did not stink.
He smelled like a man.
Marc did not open his eyes when the soap drizzled onto his chest. It smelled different, spicy and pleasant. He smiled to himself and began to let his body take its ease. He had managed to get King Richard safely to Cyprus. Also, after months of drinking sour ale, he was tasting good wine. And the soothing attentions of Soray, scrubbing gently at a month’s caked filth, were calming.
He opened his lids. ‘War is a dirty business. A warrior fights not only the enemy, but heat, desert sand, exhaustion, thirst, even hunger, while kings and princes negotiate behind each other’s backs and make secret bargains. Grasping power-seekers, the lot of them.’
‘Saladin is reported to be honest,’ the boy ventured. ‘And chivalrous.’
Marc huffed. ‘Saladin wants to hold Jerusalem at any cost. He is like a patient desert ant—truce or no, he will find a way, through force or chicanery. Or both.’
His servant uttered not one word. The rough cloth traveled back and forth across his chest, and when he leaned forward, it slid up and down his back from neck to tailbone. The lad might be unfamiliar with the ways of knights and armies, but he understood something about bathing. Marc turned one ear toward his bent knee to allow the boy to scrub his scalp and again he closed his eyes.
He was more tired than he had thought. So tired his brain was muddling things together, the scented soap, the sweet, warm air flowing in through the open casement, the feel of a hand other than his own giving attention to his body. It was soothing. Almost caressing.
He sat upright with a groan.
‘What is wrong, lord?’
‘Nothing,’ he grated. ‘Everything. I have been months without a woman.’
The washcloth halted and Soray sat back suddenly.
‘A woman?’
‘Aye. You are too young to know of such things.’
A look passed over his servant’s white face. ‘I have heard that other warriors, Christians, take Saracen women.’
‘Aye. They say such women are soft-skinned and perfumed. And skilled in dancing. And other things.’
‘And are they?’ came a small voice.
‘I would not know, lad. I have never taken one.’
‘Never?’
Marc ignored the question. Now he felt the sharp prick of desire, and it brought another groan from his throat. ‘Come, boy. Hurry it up so the water will still be warm for you.’
The boy’s breath sucked in and again the gliding cloth halted on his shoulder. ‘For me!’
‘You said you bathed, did you not? Or is it just hands and face you wash?’
Marc drew the washing linen out of the boy’s hand and scrubbed his belly and his privates, then his legs and feet. Soray hunched beside the tub, his eyes on the floor.
Marc dunked his head into the tub and came up shaking off the water like a hound. He stood up, turned toward the boy and lifted his arms. Soray stared at the rivulets of water dripping from his hair onto his chest, but the lad did not move.
‘Well, towel me off,’ he barked.
The servant bit his lower lip and began mopping at Marc’s wet skin, careful to touch no lower than Marc’s waist. God, the lad was an innocent.
An irrational feeling of protectiveness washed over him. He must guard the lad from predators until he was old enough to…
Absently he took the linen towel from Soray’s hand and dried his torso, a scar making him think suddenly of his older brother.
‘Henry, my brother…’
Unaware he had spoken aloud, he blinked when Soray softly inquired, ‘What about your brother, lord?’
‘We are very close. We were fostered together, with my father’s older brother in France. Henry won his spurs when he was eighteen, and then he took time to tutor me in the tilt yard. I still bear this scar on my chest from a badly deflected blow. There was lots of blood and Henry laid me down on the grass and wept.’
‘You love your brother,’ Soray said quietly.
‘That I do. I pray nightly that I will see him once again soon, God willing.’
The lad moved away and stood with one hand on the door bar. ‘Shall I fetch a page to empty the tub?’
‘What? No, do not. Use the water, lad. Strip and soak yourself.’
Soraya’s heart skipped once and stumbled to a stop.
Strip herself? ‘I thank you, lord, but… I…’
The knight turned toward the huge curtained bed, and Soraya swore he was hiding a smile. She was dirty and smelly, but… She glanced down at the inviting bathwater. Oh, to soak the filth off her body.
But she dared not. Unless…
She studied the blue damask curtains tied back with a thick red cord, then let her gaze drift to Marc, who was nearing the bed.
‘I wish you a peaceful rest, lord.’ She waited, heard the whisper of the straw mattress as it took his weight.
‘Peaceful it will not be until our friend the holy man is safe in his…monastery.’
Soraya did not reply. Instead, she stood motionless, listening to the knight’s gradually slowing breaths. When air gusted out of his open mouth with a hoarse after-sound, she sneaked a final look at him.
He lay spread-eagled on the fur coverlet, arms flung outward, his mouth sagging open. Asleep, she prayed. She tiptoed forward.
‘Lord?’ she whispered.
No answer, only a grunt and more steady breathing.
She tore off her leather sandals, her tunic, her belt with the precious pouch of herbs and her bag of gold coins, well wrapped in silk to prevent their clinking. Last she stepped out of her wide trousers and unbound the headpiece and the strip of linen confining her breasts.
Keeping her back to the sleeping knight, she noiselessly slid first one leg, then the other, into the lukewarm water. She dropped to her knees, tipped her head under the surface and soaped her thick curls. Every few moments she craned her neck to watch the figure on the bed.
Yes, he slept on. She took her time sponging her body, then rose, stepped silently out of the tub and wrapped herself in the still-damp towel. Just as she moved toward the pile of garments she’d left on the floor, someone began pounding on the chamber door.
‘De Valery, wake up! Open the door!’
God save her, it was the holy man with the voice of thunder. She froze in the center of the room, afraid to utter a sound, afraid to move lest the knight wake and notice her. She hugged the linen towel tighter around her body and flinched as the pounding boomed again.
‘De Valery, I bring news!’
The knight on the bed groaned and flung one arm over his face. ‘In the morning,’ he muttered. ‘Go away.’
‘Open this door at once!’
De Valery rolled heavily toward the edge of the bed and raised his torso up on one elbow. Soraya spun away, putting her back to him. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him lurch off the bed and stagger, still half-asleep, toward the chamber door.
Her heart leaped. Her tunic and trousers and the strip of linen she used to bind her breasts lay directly in his path. Trembling with fear, she waited.
The groggy knight stepped over the pile of clothes and slid back the bolt. Just as the door scraped open, Soraya clutched the towel to her bosom, darted behind de Valery to snatch up her clothes and leaped onto the bed.
Huddling in the center, wrapped in the towel, she waited until the holy man pushed through the doorway, then hurriedly yanked one of the bed curtains closed. The damask hanging zinged along the wooden rod, screening her from view.
De Valery’s sleep-muzzy voice spoke. ‘What news?’ he demanded.
‘Something has happened.’ The monk was breathing so heavily Soraya guessed he had climbed the three floors at a run. Frantically she wound the linen strip around her upper body, and was just tugging her tunic over her head when she heard the holy man stride across the room.
‘Have you some wine?’
‘No.’
‘Well, get some, man,’ the monk shouted. ‘We must talk.’
‘Soray,’ the knight ordered. ‘Go down to the kitchen. Ask them to send up food and wine.’
She scrambled into her trousers, slid off the far side of the bed and scooped up her sandals. Then she ducked past the holy man and sped down the hall to the stairway.
On the way back up from the kitchen she heard men’s voices drifting along the corridor and she hid in a garderobe to listen.
‘He would sell it?’ one man grated. ‘To the Templars? But where would we get such a sum for the purchase?’
‘Look in your vault, Giles. More than enough gold is hidden there.’
‘Damn the man!’
‘The English are not patient, Giles. We must pay.’
Soraya curled her toes but made no sound. As soon as the voices faded, she fled.
When she returned to the chamber, the bathtub was gone and a flagon of wine, a round loaf of bread, a saucer of greenish olive oil and some cheese sat on the crude wooden table against one wall. De Valery was half-dressed in a long, loose shirt, apparently one he found in the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, the lid of which now stood open. The holy man paced back and forth in front of the casement.
‘Do not argue, de Valery. It is done.’
Soraya edged around the perimeter of the shadowy room, staying out of the holy man’s path, until she reached the bed. In one bound she sprang behind the still-drawn curtain.
‘It will be dangerous,’ the knight snapped. He slammed his wine cup onto the table, and Soraya winced.
‘It is already dangerous,’ the monk shouted. ‘We leave before lauds. Get some sleep.’

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